Digging a Hole Page 9

  Brooks… My body jolts with unexpected anticipation, and an image of those intimidating gray eyes and sensual lips slides inside my head. My pulse quickens, knowing I’m going to see him tonight. It’s like some uncontrollable part of me is craving the rush I feel when we’re in the same room. Yet, at the same time, I’m anxious in a bad way, too. He’s been extremely curt when he calls, and his emails are suspiciously cold.

  Is he upset with me?

  Get over yourself, Georgie. Were you expecting winky and kiss emojis? Yet I can’t help feeling like something’s up, and I wonder if it has to do with his comment: “I’m old enough to know better.” Does that mean he’s been having thoughts he shouldn’t? And why the hell does that make my stomach all fluttery? He’s a man who, I’m sure, only wants outgoing, detached women that like it hard and rough. I’ve never even been with a man.

  I wonder if he can tell.

  Oh my God. Stop it, I scold myself. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’m acting like I dig this a-hole. Am I forgetting what type of man he really is? I deserve better and kinder, and I definitely need a man who won’t be rough with me.

  I shake the thoughts from my head and start shutting down for the day. Brooks is giving a speech at our fundraiser tonight and asked me to check it over, write out his note cards, and bring them along.

  I still can’t believe I’m doing this. My brother and sisters will be there, but have reluctantly agreed to ignore me. “It’ll be like every other event I’ve ever gone to with you guys,” I wrote in a quick text to them. “Just pretend I’m not there.” I got back all sorts of written eye rolls, but they didn’t argue.

  I quickly finish the note cards for Nick and grab my things to dress in the ladies’ room. I did my hair this morning in a simple bun, making my blonde hair look sleek and elegant versus its normal boring ponytail or braid down my back. I’ll throw on a little extra mascara to make my green eyes pop and some shimmery red lipstick. It’s my standard gala look. Only tonight, I’m not wearing a black “please don’t notice me” sack-style dress. I’m wearing a formfitting red thing with delicate spaghetti straps. The hem nearly touches the floor and requires three-inch heels. The sequin beading around the low-cut bustline, however, is what makes the dress so sexy, and it’s giving me second thoughts. Do I really want everyone noticing that part of my body?

  I feel the panic creep in and the comfort of keeping to the shadows beckoning me. It’s one thing to stand up to Brooks, but it’s another to mingle at a big party with strangers looking at me.

  Maybe this is a mistake. Someone might recognize me.

  Nobody is going to recognize you, I argue with myself. Not a soul on this planet has ever noticed me at one of my family things because I usually end up standing behind a plant. I’ve literally bumped into my father’s friends at their country club when I play tennis with my mother from time to time, and they walk right past me. Not even a smile. And trust me, my father’s friends are—I mean, were—complete ass kissers. They’d all go out of their way to rub elbows with the Waltons.

  I think I’m safe on the recognition front, but my heart still says otherwise. Oh no. And now it’s protesting and…I’m not going. I begin to hyperventilate. I feel the eyes on me, judging. No. No.

  I will have to tell Brooks I’m not feeling well. He won’t care anyway.

  I pick up my phone and text him. He’s probably at the party already since he lives right there in the building.

  Me: I can’t make it tonight. Sorry. Not feeling well.

  There. It’s decided. I shut off my laptop and grab my dress and tuck my phone inside my purse just as it rings. I pull it out and see it’s Brooks.

  Crap. He’s going to yell at me. I decline the call and go to tuck it away again, but then a beep lets me know he’s texted.

  Brooks: Why aren’t you answering?

  I stare at the tiny screen. I can always lie and tell him I was driving and couldn’t answer.

  No. Stupid. He’s seen my car. It’s got Bluetooth, Wi-Fi, and hands-free everything, including shoe shopping. Not that I use it.

  My phone rings again, and I freeze with the thing in my hand. I hate myself for it, but I want to hear that deep voice. I almost crave the shivers that run down my spine when I hear it.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Where are you?” His tone is a notch below pissed off.

  “Leaving the building,” I say sheepishly.

  “Are you dying?”

  “No.”

  “Fever, vomiting, bleeding from your ears?” he asks sharply.

  I’m working up to it. “I just don’t feel well and—”

  “Then you’re coming.”

  I bite my upper lip. I don’t like his tone. I don’t like that he’s demanding I come.

  “No.” This time I’m firm. And dammit, yay me!

  He growls on the other end. “Sydney, why won’t you come? The truth.”

  The truth? There’s no point telling him because he’d never understand what it’s like to have this thing inside you that you can’t control. I’ve made progress, and I take pride in that, but it doesn’t mean I’m cured. And trust me, I want to be. It’s painful to be this shy. It literally makes my heart and stomach ache.

  I sigh. “I’m not…I’m not…good with being in public.”

  “God help me,” he grumbles with exasperation. “I’m coming to get you.”

  “No! No, I don’t want to see…” you. I suck in a deep breath, suddenly realizing that it’s not just the public and their staring eyes I’m afraid of. It’s him, too. I suddenly fear walking into that room in my red dress, trying to look my most beautiful and bold, only to have him ignore me or not see me or not notice that it’s all to impress…him.

  I let out a groan of trepidation. How in the world did I get all crushy over this man?

  “Too late, I’m already here,” says that no-BS voice.

  I look up to see Brooks standing there in a tux, looking absolutely breathtaking—tall, elegant, those wide shoulders filling out his sleek black jacket to perfection, and his stubble adds just the right amount of roughness to his exquisite face. His silvery eyes seem paler tonight, and his thick black lashes look darker. He’s wickedly beautiful. And I can’t look away despite the swirling in my stomach.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Had a tux emergency—missing button. My tailor is across the street.” The frown is instant as he looks me over in my plain black skirt and blue blouse. “Where’s your dress?”

  I lift the garment bag draped over my arm.

  “You do realize you actually have to put it on, right?” he says.

  I nod, but on the inside I’m fighting like hell not to cry. Like I told him, it’s not always about sadness for me. Sometimes the tears are the only way for my emotions to come out when I’m in a mental gridlock like this—I want to speak, but my body refuses.

  Maybe he sees the torment in my eyes, or maybe he just wants to get me moving, but he lets out a long breath and rakes his strong hand through the side of his dark hair. “All right, I’m out of my league here, Syd. And I don’t claim to understand what’s happening inside that head of yours, but I can see it’s something unpleasant.” He lowers his voice and speaks with tenderness. “So just tell me what you need, and I promise to do my best to help. But I’d really like it if you came with me to the fundraiser.”

  I stare in disbelief. He didn’t demand, bark, or belittle. Instead, he gave me a glimpse of his soft side. This is the real him, isn’t it? I don’t know why I think that, but tender suits him.

  Suddenly, I feel myself falling, the attraction overwhelming. Because the fact is, that is what I needed. A man who can shed his armor for me, but at the same time show me how to wear my own. I just wish I knew why he goes around masquerading as a complete asshole.

  One thing is for certain, I won’t ever find out if I hide in my room.

  I pat the side of my head, checking if my hair is still in
place and party ready. “Thanks for the…” I don’t know what to call it and not end up sounding corny. “The pep talk. I’ll go put on my dress.”

  He smiles, and it’s warm and sexy and inviting because those boyish dimples are on display. “See, I knew you just needed to hear the right sales pitch.”

  “That was a sales pitch?” Of course it was. And there I go again, acting like a naïve, wide-eyed little girl. I’m such an idiot. He doesn’t actually care about me.

  “Don’t make it sound so dirty, Sydney. I gave you a little nudge of encouragement.”

  “I think I’ll pass on the party. Goodnight.”

  His eyes follow me as I walk by him and head toward the elevators. “Sydney.” I feel his strong hand on my wrist, pulling me back to face him. “What just happened?”

  I’m furious and getting more pissed by the minute. Not at him, but at myself. I think I want him to be good because then I won’t feel like a fool for feeling an attraction to this uncaring beast.

  “I have to give you credit, Mr. Brooks. You really are a great salesman. Because for one second, I actually believed you gave a shit about me.”

  He almost laughs, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Is that really what you want, Sydney? I should hope you have larger aspirations in life than to have some asshole like me care about you, because I certainly think you can do better.”

  It takes a moment to realize what he’s really trying to say: a man like him isn’t good enough for me.

  “Another sales pitch?” I ask.

  “No. The truth.” He leans down a little, putting his face closer to mine. “You’re smart, Sydney. You’re beautiful and young and you have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t waste it on men like me.”

  His words are a plea to walk away, but his tone says the opposite: “Waste your whole life on me.” And, dammit, if there isn’t a vulnerability in his eyes that makes me think he’s way more damaged than he lets on.

  I can’t even…Not with this. The argument he’s made only draws me to him again. It proves that deep down inside, while he might not be good, he certainly isn’t bad. A bad man would try to take advantage of a woman like me. Men in power do it all the time.

  “The problem is I’m really sick of people telling me what to think.” I look him in the eyes, and the rush pumps through my body. “And I’d like to decide for myself how I spend my time or who’s worthy of it.”

  “That is a problem.” He looks down at me with a tick of torment in his eyes. “Because that sort of stubbornness makes it all the more difficult for me to leave you alone.”

  Before I can process what he’s just said, he slides one arm around my waist and pulls my body into him. His hand cups the back of my head, and his lips are an inch from mine.

  I can’t move or breathe—no, not true. I’m panting, savoring the feel of my breasts pushing against his chest, three layers of fabric between our skin. The ache between my legs is instant, and I don’t even care that we’re standing in the middle of our office, where anyone could walk by and see us. I want to drink every salacious drop of the lust in his eyes. I want to soak it in like a brine that will preserve the moment forever in my memories.

  Brooks’s lips are so close, I can feel his soft breath on my face, but he doesn’t move. Kiss me, I think over and over again. Because we both know I’m not bold enough to do it.

  He abruptly lets go and steps back. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”

  I want to say it’s okay, that I want it, but he doesn’t give me the chance.

  “I’m your boss, and I don’t take advantage of women, no matter how beautiful I think they are. Especially ones I’m supposed to look after.”

  My body goes cold with shock. “I don’t need you to look after me,” I say quietly, disappointed that he feels this way. He’s attracted to me, yet thinks I’m too fragile, too weak.

  He straightens his tie, and I imagine he’s wanting to straighten out something in his pants, too, but won’t dare do it in front of me. “In my profession, trust is everything, and we’re not stepping over the line. You’re not my plaything, Sydney.”

  “I know,” I whisper. But is that what this is? I don’t believe it for a moment. Not after his speech about me deserving better.

  “I’ll give you a ride to the fundraiser. I’ll wait downstairs while you change—don’t take too long.”

  As he walks away, I want to say that I know I’m not some goddamned ball-busting, fiery woman who approaches life with a knife in one hand and grenade in the other, ready to crack skulls and take names. I know that’s what society wants me to be, but not all women are like that. Some of us are gentle and kind, and yes, a little shy. But that doesn’t mean we’re not smart or powerful in our own way. Power is about being yourself, accepting who you are, and finding strength in that. Some of us do it quietly, and others do it with blazing guns. The point is, just because I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve and spout off every thought inside my head doesn’t mean he’d be taking advantage of me. Yet the fact that he cares so much about it makes me want him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When I get outside to the front of the building, I notice the awaiting Town Car with the back door open. Brooks is inside, sitting on the leather seat closest to me, talking on his cell. He doesn’t even watch me approach, but I’m not surprised. Not now. Because now I know he’s trying very hard not to notice me.

  I slide into the car, my ass scooting past his face since he’s decided to take the seat closest to the curb, and my mother taught me to never enter a vehicle on the traffic side of a busy street. “Always get in on the side closest to the curb. That is safest and where a lady enters.”

  “What if someone is sitting there?” I asked.

  “Then they’re ill-mannered. But you are my daughter. You stick to etiquette and, above all, your safety, Georgie. There are bad people out there who wish to harm you.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because the have-nots want to blame the world and resent us. Sometimes they want to hurt us.”

  I don’t remember agreeing, because I spent my time with plenty of people who had less—my teachers, other students, the staff in our home and even the people in our social circles. When you’re a Walton, few people are richer than you. Still, I suppose some of my mother’s common sense stuck, and that’s why I’m trying to scoot past my boss while I’m in a skintight red gown and three-inch heels.

  As I baby step my way past him, his hand grazes my backside. I can’t tell if it was an accident or he just couldn’t resist.

  I go with the latter, because after what just happened back there, I’m on fire. My crush has turned into scalding hot lust, and I don’t know if it’s because people inherently want the things they can’t have or because he feels it’s his duty to follow a strict moral code when it comes to touching me. It’s a potent, sexy, tempting combination, and my body is making it blatantly clear it now wants him. My breasts feel fuller against the snug fit of the dress. My hips feel tighter. My panties feel constricting. Every inch of me is pulsing to break free and invite his touch.

  I take my seat, the driver closes the door, and we’re off. Brooks is still on his phone, giving the occasional “uh-huh” while I try to ignore the energy buzzing through the air.

  He shifts slightly, giving me a wedge of his back. The tension in his shoulders and neck mirrors my own.

  What would happen if we both relieved it? I don’t know, but I really want to find out.

  When the car slows, I can’t believe we’re already here. This time, Brooks gets out first so I don’t have to climb over him, though I’m not sure I’d mind.

  He turns and holds out his hand while the other is still stuck to his phone. I wonder if he’s even talking to anyone at all? Feels like a convenient way to ignore me and shove away any libidinous feelings.

  I take his warm hand and exit the car, but he looks away and immediately lets go once I’m no longe
r at risk of tripping.

  Fine. I can play too. I keep walking, ensuring Brooks has nothing to look at except my ass in this dress. When I get to the elevator, I turn, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  Son of a biscuit! My confidence takes a hit. Here I am thinking I’m tempting him with every weapon in my lady arsenal, and he’s run off to be with his mistress: work.

  “Hi, I am Gerard Boucher.” I look up at a redheaded man in a tux.

  “I’m Sydney Lucas.” I politely nod.

  “Oh. Sydney.” He takes my hand and kisses the top, lingering just a bit too long on the skin. “I am from Phillipe Morrissey. I was looking forward to meeting you, and now I know forward is the wrong direction.”

  “Sorry?” I say.

  “A man does not move forward for such a beautiful creature. He falls.”

  I jerk my hand away. Brooks was not joking about this guy. He’s a sexual octopus, ready to get his tentacles on me.

  The elevator chimes open, and I step inside, pushing the rooftop button.

  “So, I understand you are new to PVP?” he asks on the ride up.

  “Yes. I’m an intern.”

  “Ah. Such a sweet time in one’s life. So young.”

  Eww and eww. “Not so young. Not so sweet.”

  “Ah, but much to be learned.” He wiggles his red brows.

  Ick! Not from a scum trunk like you. Thankfully the doors open, and when I step out, Henry is standing there greeting guests. I head straight for him.

  “Mr. Walton, so nice to see you again,” I say.

  There’s a flicker of outrage in his eyes. “Delighted to see you again—Sydney, was it?”

  And big brother’s hating on me. Big time. I am unsure why, so I move quickly to Elle, who hugs me and whispers in my ear, “You’re out of your fucking mind coming to this party in that dress.”

  I pull away. “Huh?”

  “Every man here is going to be hitting on you. Henry won’t stand for it.”

  I pfft. Yeah right. “Your husband is an idiot.”

  “My husband loves you more than life itself, little Georgie,” Elle hisses. “Don’t you ever forget it.”